Lesser Evil, Greater Good
by Prophetic Fire
Summary: Plo Koon wrestles with the decision to accept the clone army.


Yoda's approach was quiet, but not unexpected. Plo could sense his presence as he methodically made his way through the rooftop gardens toward him. He sighed, and braced himself for the coming conversation. He'd known it was only a matter of time before this discussion would happen.

Master Yoda reached the bench where he sat and climbed upon it. Moments went by in relative silence, the distant whine of speeder traffic and the light tinkling of chimes in the artificial Coruscant breeze the only underscore. Plo wondered what would be said to him. He sat on the Council himself, but around Master Yoda he still sometimes felt like a child. Still unsure, still without all the answers. Still hoping to be worthy of the title with which he'd been bestowed.

"Master Plo," Yoda finally said, his gravelly voice soft, yet strong, "troubled, you are."

Troubled. Troubled? Troubled was an understatement.

"I _am_ troubled," he replied.

"Think of the war, you do," Yoda continued.

"I do."

Yoda turned on the bench, fixing Plo with his wide, wise eyes. "Your thoughts, tell me. I want to hear them."

He hardly knew where to begin. He still couldn't sort through his emotions from the last few days. The shock of the Separatist army, the grief for the loss of so many Jedi in a single day, the anger at Count Dooku, at the Trade Federation, at anyone who used fear and death as a means to an end. And the sick, churning feeling in his stomach when he thought of the clone troopers.

"We are peacekeepers," he said, "not warriors. Geonosis was an exception. We went to _prevent_ conflict from erupting. To stop it before it could spread. And now we find ourselves at war."

Yoda nodded, his lips pursed in the expression of concentration he so often wore. "Troubled by more than this, you are, I think. Troubled by the clone army, my senses tell me."

 _"I won't take possession of slaves."_

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Master Yoda looked slightly taken aback for an instant, before his calm countenance fell into place once more. Plo sighed.

"Forgive my outburst, Master Yoda. I have been…struggling with my emotions, regarding this."

Yoda nodded once more. "A deep call to justice, I have always sensed in you. Wronged, you feel, to me. Tell me, of the clone troopers, what are your thoughts?"

Plo took a breath, trying to steady the rising feeling in his blood. "There are hundreds of men," he began, "thousands of men, _millions_ of men, who were created for _us_ , we are told. Created to fight for us. Created for no other purpose but this existence. Created with no other _choice_ than this existence. And we as Jedi are being asked to lead them to their deaths. For if this truly is to be a war, then they will die, along with many more. This is a slave army, Master, forced to serve at the hands of the Republic, and I want no part in it."

Yoda looked away, a pained expression flickering across his face. "Each Jedi Knight, their part must do, if to win the war we are. Generals, we must be."

"We are not soldiers," Plo countered. "Why is this our fight?"

Yoda slipped softly from the bench and wandered a few paces off, toward a bush blooming with vibrant flowers. He reached out and gently stroked one of the petals. "If fall the Republic does," he said, "so too, I fear, does the Jedi Order. Then no one left, there will be, to keep the peace."

Plo studied his hands. "I will not lead slaves into battle."

Yoda turned back to him, fixing him with his intense gaze. "If not you, someone else it will be. Someone with less wisdom. Someone with less compassion. Already agreed, the others have."

A moment passed, a flickering tension in the Force. Then Yoda sighed and dropped his gaze back to the flowers. "See no way out of this, I can. The Dark Side surrounds every path. Into battle these soldiers will go, no matter what choice we make. Lead them, and perhaps save more of them, you can, than would happen otherwise."

Silence settled around them again. Yoda's words turned over and over in his gut, logical, uncomfortable, heavy. If he stood by and did nothing, the deaths of these men would be on his hands just the same, for having left their fates to someone else. Yoda was right. There would be no other choice for the clones. He could not turn his back on them.

"I am not a soldier," he said softly. "I do not know how to lead these men."

Yoda made his way back to him, and gently rested his hand atop his. The Force moved through him from the touch, deep and serene. Yoda fixed him with a kindly gaze.

"Lead, Master Plo, as you have taught your padawans: by example."

They remained there a moment longer, their breaths synchronizing, feeling the pulse of the living Force. At long last, Master Yoda patted his hand and began to totter off. "Come," he said. "Met our clone commanders today, we did. One there is, still waiting for his General."

Plo followed, leaving the gardens behind, striding through the pathways of the Temple down to the Great Hall. A number of identical men milled about in a corner, dressed in sleek gray uniforms. _Not_ identical, Plo realized, the closer he approached. Some sported different haircuts or colors, and none of them gave off the same impression in the Force. Individuals all. And so _young._ Plo's heart ached. He knew, then, that he would do whatever he could to keep these men alive.

Master Yoda cleared his throat as they approached. Abruptly, the clones stopped conversing and fell into line, saluting in one seamless gesture. Yoda waved his hand. "Back to restful stance, please go." He beckoned for Plo to come closer, and addressed one of the clone troopers. "Apologies, Commander, for the delay. Found your General, I have. General Plo Koon, Jedi Master."

Plo bowed to the trooper. He felt the Force eddying around him, nervousness and excitement, and a steel edge humming brightly beneath it all. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Commander." And he meant it. He really meant it.

The trooper saluted again, his face a study in seriousness. "See-See Thirty-six Thirty-six, sir! It's an honor to be serving with you."

Plo's stomach churned again. CC-3636. They had numbers. They had numbers? Surely they had more than numbers.

"What is your name, my son?"

He felt another eddy in the Force, a thrumming leap of _pride._ The trooper's face tried to stay neutral, but Plo saw the spark that twinkled in his eyes.

"It's Wolffe, sir. Commander Wolffe."

Plo bowed again, deeper this time.

"Well, Commander Wolffe. The honor is mine."


End file.
